The Mirror Man

by Jane Gilmartin

  “Nothing,” he said. “We never talked about it. I didn’t see him again until I was much older—eighteen, maybe—my first summer home from college. He was at our house for a barbecue and I had a beer with him and listened to him talk about flies.”

  “Flies?”

  “Yeah, for a good hour. How they see things in overlapping, fractured images because of the way their eyes are, so they can look at a person and see him from different angles at the same time. He said they know more because of the way they see things. He said he’d like to have eyes like a fly.” He shook his head and smiled at the memory. “He was a real whack job. But at that age, I found him kind of intriguing. I never saw him again after that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he said, “a few weeks later he jumped in front of a moving train.”

  Chapter 12

  Later that same afternoon, Natalie came into his room and asked if he was all set to go.

  “Go where?”

  “You have an appointment with Dr. Pike today. I’ll walk with you.”

  Jeremiah snickered. She made it sound like they were going for a coffee. She was, he knew, more guard than companion.

  “Sure,” he said. “That would be lovely.”

  They were a good five minutes early for the appointment and arrived to find the door to his examination room closed. As there was no waiting room, they stood in the hallway.

  “Who’s in there?” Jeremiah asked. As far as he knew, he was Pike’s sole patient. Natalie shrugged her shoulders and looked at her shoes.

  When the door opened a minute later, Jeremiah was surprised to see Charles Scott come out of the room, his suit jacket draped over his arm and his shirtsleeves rolled up above his wrists. Pike was at his elbow and both men looked momentarily flustered to find them there.

  “Mr. Adams,” Scott said, straightening his shoulders and assuming his usual air of supremacy in seamless transition. “Why on Earth are you loitering in the halls?”

  “Sorry,” Natalie said. Jeremiah noted that she seemed slightly rattled, as well. “Mr. Adams has an appointment. I think we’re a few minutes early.”

  Scott offered her a cool expression. “You would do well,” he said, “to adhere to your exact schedule.”

  She nodded and retreated back down the hall. Pike invited Jeremiah into the exam room with a flick of his hand, and Scott took a moment to button the cuffs of his shirt. As Jeremiah stepped around him to get into the room, he noticed a fresh cotton bandage adhered to the back of Scott’s neck, at the base of his skull. About two inches in length, it was difficult to miss.

  “I didn’t know you were Dr. Scott’s doctor,” Jeremiah said when Pike closed the door hastily behind him.

  “I’m not. He just comes in periodically for vitamin injections. He’s something of a health nut.”

  Last Jeremiah knew, vitamins weren’t typically injected into someone’s skull.

  He hoisted himself onto the table and watched with interest as Pike covered and then cleared away a metal tray holding implements that he’d presumably just used on Scott. Judging from the serious size of the needle and the amount of blood-soaked gauze, he was fairly confident Pike was lying to him.

  Two hours later, alone at the computer in his rooms, Jeremiah thought he’d discovered the truth. A rudimentary search revealed the startling possibility that Dr. Pike had injected Scott’s brain with stem cells. There was little else it could have been. There was a chance, he supposed, that it might have been a treatment for migraines. But Jeremiah knew about that kind of pain. Migraines were difficult to mask. It had to be stem cells. After that, Jeremiah kept landing on scientific journals that touted stem cell therapy as a promising treatment for various neurological disorders.

  He remembered now the odd change that came over Scott every time he spoke about the medical possibilities of human cloning, the way his eyes always seemed to gloss over with something approaching desperation whenever he talked about it.

  And he remembered the coffee cup.

  Scott had all the early signs of a serious neurological disease. Either Parkinson’s or, far more likely, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—ALS. In either case, it was going to get worse. In either case, he was dying.

  It made sense. It answered a lot of questions. But as Jeremiah stared at the computer screen, it presented even more ominous ones: if Charles Scott was sick, what did that say about this experiment? What did that mean for him?

  The realization hit him before he even saw it coming. Scott’s own words echoed in Jeremiah’s mind: “Our work means everything, Mr. Adams. It means mankind can finally be free of all the random, senseless frailties of the human body. It means a second chance.”

  The meaning of those words became suddenly crystal clear. Charles Scott didn’t care about second chances for the whole of humanity. He wanted a second chance for himself.

  Despite what he’d told Brent and everyone else, his motives weren’t purely scientific. He was in it to save his own life. And that clock was ticking.

  Charles Scott was a desperate man. Worse, Jeremiah realized, he was a desperate man with a lot of money at his disposal and in a position of considerable power. Jeremiah felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up: right now, Charles Scott controlled every aspect of Jeremiah’s entire life and that fact probably meant very little to him.

  Chapter 13

  Day 82

  On Sunday morning, Jeremiah picked up the landline phone and asked to see Dr. Pike as soon as possible. He knew better than to confront Pike with his suspicions about Scott, but he wanted to speak to him, to see if he could discern anything from the man’s demeanor. An hour later, Pike had his head inside Jeremiah’s refrigerator. He emerged with an expression of utter confusion.

  “There are plenty of healthy choices here, Mr. Adams. I really don’t think you’re in danger of starving.”

  “I am if I don’t eat it.”

  “I’m afraid your recent physicals have been unsatisfactory. You need to lose some weight. You are nearly seven pounds heavier than your clone. I’ve been telling you for weeks now to watch your diet and use the treadmill more. If you’d listened to my advice, you wouldn’t be in this situation now.”

  “Can’t you just fatten up the clone?” Jeremiah asked, only half joking. “Sneak in and switch a few things around in his fridge. He’ll catch up in no time. And, that way, no one gets hurt.”

  “This isn’t funny,” Pike said.

  “I’m not trying to be funny. Look. I have months left here. Why is it so important that I catch up to the clone right this minute?”

  “It’s very important,” Pike said. “If something were to happen, something which made it necessary for you to switch places with your double at a moment’s notice, you’d have a hard time explaining to people how you managed to gain seven pounds in a matter of hours.”

  “Yeah,” Jeremiah said. “I suppose. I just don’t see why I have to be the one to suffer. I mean, I lead a very limited life here, Dr. Pike. Food is kind of the best part of my day. And you’ve stocked this place with things that taste like plastic and cardboard. Can we compromise? Just a little?”

  Dr. Pike closed the refrigerator and turned to Jeremiah with a severe expression.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said at last. “This is too important. I’ll make a deal, however. If you can shed five pounds by your next physical, in about one month, I will agree to some modest adjustments to your food selections. I’ll let you select three things to put back in your diet. In moderation.”

  Jeremiah sighed. “I’m calling Dr. Scott,” he said. “We’ll see what he has to say about this. He’s always telling me how he wants me to be comfortable.”

  “Don’t bother Dr. Scott with something so trivial.”

  Jeremiah stared at Pike. He definitely noted something more behind his words. He was sin
cerely worried about the man.

  “I’m calling him,” he said.

  “I believe you’ll find he is in total agreement with me on this,” Pike told him. “I’ll see you at our next appointment.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Jeremiah shouted before the door closed behind the doctor.

  He picked up the landline phone again and put it to his ear.

  “Good morning, Mr. Adams. This is Andrea. How can I help you?”

  “I need to speak with Dr. Scott.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t connect you directly, but I could take a message for him.”

  “Why can’t I just speak to him?” he asked. “It’s important.”

  “He isn’t in the facility at the moment.”

  “Then put me through to his ViMed office.”

  “It’s Sunday, Mr. Adams. He isn’t there. And even if he were there, you know I can’t do that.”

  “No, I suppose not. When is he due back?”

  “He won’t be in today. I expect him to call later.”

  Jeremiah turned when he heard the familiar click of a key card opening the front door. Brent came in dressed in a wrinkled T-shirt, his red hair in its usual state of chaos.

  “Okay, fine,” Jeremiah told Andrea. “Just have him call me.” He put the receiver back on its cradle and turned to Brent. “Charles Scott isn’t even here today,” he said. “Who’s watching the monkeys?”

  “He wasn’t here yesterday, either,” Brent told him. “I suppose he has other things to do. He is busy, you know.”

  “Other things? I can’t imagine anything important enough to take him away from his precious experiment for two days in a row. You don’t find that strange?”

  Brent shrugged and walked into the kitchen. Jeremiah followed him and watched as he poured himself the last of the coffee from the carafe.

  “You didn’t want this, did you?”

  “Does Scott go missing on a regular basis, then?” Jeremiah asked. “What if something happened here? What if there was an emergency or something?”

  “There’s such a thing as cell phones, you know. I’m sure he hasn’t gone to the moon.” Brent put two sugars into his cup. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Nothing,” Jeremiah told him. “I just think it’s odd that he isn’t here for two days. He’s in charge of all this. This is his show. Is he on vacation or something?”

  Brent shook his head and took a sip of his coffee. “I doubt it,” he said with some consideration. “I doubt he’s taken a vacation day in ten years. He’s probably just busy.”

  Jeremiah leaned back against the counter and stared at Brent. “Do you think he’s sick or something?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.” If Brent knew anything at all he showed no indication of it.

  “He’s been acting strange lately,” Jeremiah said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, like he’s nervous or something, like he’s got something on his mind.”

  “He’s got a lot on his mind,” Brent said. “He’s in charge of this whole thing, remember.”

  “What if there’s a problem we don’t know about?”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think something’s wrong. And I’m starting to wonder if there’s anything I should know. Do you know anything?”

  “Nothing, Jeremiah. Calm down. You’re reading too much into things that don’t matter. It seems like you’re the one with the problem.”

  “Easy for you to say. Sorry, Brent, but you don’t have as much at stake as I do. And you’re not trapped in this room all day. If something’s going on, if something happened, I just think someone should let me know.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone from the outside found out what we’re doing and we’re all going to jail? Maybe he’s lost funding and has to put the brakes on the whole thing? How do I know? No one tells me anything around here. I’m asking you.”

  “And I’m telling you there’s nothing to worry about. If it were something like that, I would be told. Now, come on. The viewing’s about to start.”

  “Would you tell me? If something happened?”

  “Yes,” Brent said with an exaggerated sigh. “I’d tell you. Now can we get settled before the monitor comes on?” He walked into the living room, and Jeremiah followed him, satisfied that Brent didn’t know anything about Scott’s illness. At least, he thought, that meant Brent wasn’t in on it.

  “I almost forgot,” Brent said before taking his usual spot on the couch. “I brought us something.” He unzipped his backpack and produced a white paper bag holding two absolutely mammoth chocolate-covered doughnuts. “Smuggled in something decent to eat.”

  “Pike’s going to hand you your head if he finds out about this.” Jeremiah took almost half the thing in the first bite. “He’s all over me about my weight.”

  “I think it’s definitely a risk worth taking. Maybe it’s the diet that’s making you all weird. Sit down, we have a show to watch.”

  “Bring me one with sprinkles tomorrow.”

  When the monitor came on, Jeremiah and Brent saw the clone and Diana at the kitchen table. He was doing a crossword puzzle. She was drinking iced coffee and flipping through the pages of a home decorating magazine, her eyes scanning the glossy photos with quick, critical precision.

  “We should do the kitchen over,” she said without looking up.

  “Again?”

  “That was ten years ago,” she told him, as though this would serve as both explanation and final argument.

  “Diana,” the clone said, “I’ve got to figure out my mother’s situation. It’s going to cost me a lot more and they want me to move on it. Let’s get through that first.”

  “There’s always something more important,” she said. She got up from the table and began loading the dishwasher, still, Jeremiah noted, without even glancing at the clone.

  “Last I heard,” the clone said, turning now to fully face her back, “you were looking for a new house. We don’t need a new kitchen and a new house, do we?”

  “Well, there doesn’t seem to be much interest in that, either,” she told him. “I can’t get you to even talk about it seriously. Forget it.”

  “You’re never home to talk about anything seriously,” the clone told her, and Jeremiah leaned slightly forward, paying careful attention to how this would play out. He was glad to see his double taking some initiative, even where he had been unable or unwilling to do so. But the clone was not confrontational, he was tiptoeing around the real question, just like he would have done himself.

  She changed the subject.

  “Louie has another appointment at the vet this afternoon. They might need to adjust his medication. Do you want to take him, or should I?”

  “I think you better do it,” the clone told her. “I can’t get him to go in the car with me. Not even with a treat. I think that stuff is messing with him. He’s not acting right.”

  Jeremiah shot a sideways glance at Brent. Every time someone started talking about Louie he got worried that there might be questions. But Brent wasn’t typing anything into his notes. He just continued to stare at the screen. The comment had gone right over his head.

  “It’s probably just the new car,” Diana said. “It smells different. Dogs can sense when something has changed. They don’t like it. I’m going to take him for a walk.” She closed the dishwasher and wiped her hands on a towel. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  The clone watched her leave and then went right back to his crossword. In the silence, Jeremiah looked at him and tried to recollect the exact moment he’d realized something in his marriage had changed. Diana’s added hours at work had been noticeable, of course, but the first inklings of her infidelity
had been subtle, quiet things. Something in her tone of voice, or her eyes, maybe. The way she started filling up long silences with pointless banter and conversations that led nowhere. He’d been staring at her one night as she sat in front of her mirror, combing her hair with a private, unexpected smile on her face. When she noticed him there, she put down her comb and left the room without a word. He had the distinct impression that he had intruded on something. That was the moment, he realized now, that she knew he knew. After that, they’d settled into a quiet, defeated sort of acknowledgment of the thing, without anger and without any words at all. It had become something they skirted around and averted, as though avoiding it might spare them some awful truth ten times worse. It was then, Jeremiah supposed, that he had stopped all attempts at intimacy with her, even small ones—reaching for her hand or brushing stray hair from her face. Eventually, that lack of physical contact began to feel normal. And that was the real charade, he thought, almost worse than the cheating itself. The knowing and not facing it. They were both guilty of that. And so, too, now was the clone. And in some way that he couldn’t fathom, that aspect bothered Jeremiah more than anything else. Had he been harboring some latent hope that his clone would be stronger than he was? Did he think his double would have the guts to face things? To fix things? To do what Jeremiah himself couldn’t do himself? He’d come closer than Jeremiah had, but he still hadn’t said anything.

  Jeremiah didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the clone’s Sunday morning. His double flipped through the pages of the newspaper at the kitchen table and then left in his car to do a few errands, the cameras losing sight of him each time he parked and got out, and picking him up again when he got back in. Jeremiah felt like a silent passenger waiting in the car. He was relieved when the monitor switched off just before the clone turned into his driveway to pull into the garage.

  “It’s decently after noontime,” Jeremiah said almost the instant the monitor switched off. “I could use a beer.”

  “We’ll do the questions first,” Brent said. “Then yes, I want a beer.”